


If I Believe You

by DumpsterSellout



Series: Its Not Living Universe [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Brian is an idiot, Freddie is cross, John doesn't give a FUCK, M/M, Roger isn't lying this time, Sick Roger, Sickfic, Vomit, boys are idiots, emetophobes im sorry for my entire account idk, idk i have writers block and i need to write dumb boys, its just fluff and plotless nonsense but enjoy lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 01:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18187889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DumpsterSellout/pseuds/DumpsterSellout
Summary: Roger is "sick". Brian isn't falling for his bullshit again.AKARoger has cried wolf one too many times





	If I Believe You

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahaha I can't write and i'm back at ripping titles from the 1975 lmao  
> short lil thing bc when i stay up until 5am this is what im thinking about

That was the third time Roger had been to the “toilet” in under an hour. Brian had noticed his little breaks getting longer and longer, and each time he dragged his feet a little slower to get back into the booth. Brian had really had enough of him mucking around when they had agreed to actually try to get things done. Freddie and Deaky had wandered off for a late dinner after they’d wrapped up their parts, John’s bass line being something of a one take wonder, and Roger had protested that he wanted a break too, and that it wasn’t fair that he had to stay behind. Well, it was even less fair that Brian had to stay behind and supervise him. The studio had officially ‘closed’ over an hour ago, all the techs had gone home for the night, and he was being forced to hang back and babysit his blond haired boyfriend while he ran through his drum parts over and over after he’d already gotten through all his own parts much earlier in the day. That was the price you had to pay for dating Roger Taylor, he supposed.

He’d been playing poorly all day, missing beats and swearing into the mic when something sounded off, going as far as to threaten to break the kit so he could get some new cymbals that ‘sounded right.’ Brian really didn’t know what his problem was. He’d woken him up as late as possible with a pancake breakfast to apologise for having to get up so early, something Roger notoriously hated, and promised him good things when they got home if he got through the day with minimal whining. That was out the window now, as he’d been in one of the foulest moods Brian had ever seen since lunchtime, and it had only gotten worse. It was clear as to why he was behaving like such a child now, though. It was a Friday night, past eight o’clock, he wanted to go out, and he thought behaving like an imbecile would eventually grate on Brian’s nerves so much that he’d give up and let him go home. No such luck. They were finishing the bloody song,  _ tonight _ , and that wasn’t going to be argued.   


“I’m feeling really sick...” came a distressed sounding voice, the blond sitting hunched over the drums and gazing through the thick glass panel at Brian, eyes bright and pleading. Brian rolled his eyes, noting the way he rubbed his stomach, something he routinely did when he was trying to convince Brian he was ‘too sick’ to go to uni. Brian huffed. He was  _ not _ falling for that one again. He’d last tried that routine on Monday, and Brian had been a sucker then for the third time that month. Roger had only stayed in bed for an hour complaining of a terrible stomachache, soaking up sympathy and cuddles from Brian before getting bored jumping out of bed to mess around with Freddie, claiming that he spontaneously felt ‘better’. Brian knew that that was exactly what would happen if he gave in this time, too. He’d take him home from the studio, and as soon as they got there, Roger would claim that he was miraculously cured and dash out the door to go partying with Freddie. He was  _ not _ letting that happen.   He opened the door to the booth, poking his head in.   


“Rog, let’s just get this bit done and then we can  _ all _ go home for the night, okay?” he tried to reason, giving him his best pleading look. He knew his puppy eyes were no match for Rogers, but sometimes they worked. Roger gave him a frustrated pout, and Brian rolled his eyes, shutting the door and locking it from the outside. They were going to get this done one way or another.

“Did you just lock me in?!” Roger squawked. Brian nodded coolly, holding down the speaker button and leaning in to the mic.   
  
“Please just play, Rog,” he sighed, exasperated, rolling the track. Roger looked very sulky, but he did play, which was relieving. Well, until he messed up his entire solo and threw a stick at the glass, getting up and walking to the door to try the handle. It obviously didn’t open, and he pressed his forehead against the glass, glaring at Brian.   


“Let me out. I need to go to the loo.” he said firmly. Brian just shook his head, standing up against the door and pointing over Rogers shoulder at the kit.   
“No you don’t, you’ve just been. Play.” 

Roger looked at him for a second, eyes pleading, before realising Brian wasn’t budging, bending over awkwardly in the small booth to pick up his rogue stick and shuffling back over to the kit, plopping down. He had another go at rubbing his stomach, obviously trying to convince Brian, but he ignored him.   


“I really don’t feel well,” he tried again, voice quieter and more pleading than demanding. Brian almost wavered a bit, before realising he was just being manipulative as usual, shaking his head and rolling the track again. He played along, obviously lacking in energy and effort, but at least he was in time.   


“How’s it going?” a voice came, making Brian jump in his seat, turning to see John and Freddie standing behind him, watching Roger giving 20% in the booth.

“Marvellous. He’s wasted about half an hour trying to convince me to let him go home, but I think we’re finally getting there,” he said, shrugging.   


“What’s he been up to this time?” Freddie snorted, shaking his head.   


“Oh, he’s ‘feeling sick’ and I had to lock the door to stop him from getting up and going to the ‘toilet’ every two minutes,” he sighed. Freddie peered in at Roger, frowning.   


“That’s a bit rude. He’s not a dog,” John commented.   


“Are you sure he’s faking?” Freddie asked, eyebrows knitting together.   


“One hundred percent,” Brian nodded, watching as John glanced over to the lock on the door handle.   


“Are you  _ sure _ that’s a good idea? What if he actually has to go?” he asked.   


“Then I’ll be able to tell, and I’ll escort him,” Brian sighed, “you don’t know all his tricks like I do.”

“I’m sure,” John sighed, frowning a bit as Roger messed up again, throwing both his sticks this time, directly at the glass, obviously aimed right at Brian’s head.

“Maybe we ought to call it a night, this isn’t going anywhere,” Freddie said, eyeing the suspiciously pale looking blond as he snaked his arms around his stomach.

“No, Fred, he’s getting this done  _ tonight, _ ” he said firmly. Their attention was pulled to the booth when they heard a little whimper, and saw Roger practically curled up on his drum stool, opening his mouth to speak.

“Brian I-”

The next thing to come out of his mouth wasn’t words. It was more of a fountain of pancake puke, spraying over his drum kit, and himself, and the expensive rug on the floor. It didn’t stop coming for what felt like minutes whilst the trio looked on, and Roger briefly clamped his hand over his mouth to try and stop it. That didn’t work, so he moved his hand, heaving and making horrible sounds of distress, John reaching out to stop the recording when he noticed the red light still blinking away. Brian couldn’t believe his eyes, mouth hanging open, unable to do anything but sit in shock, along with the others, waiting until he was done.   


“Brian you  _ fucking idiot! _ ” Freddie was the first to speak after a beat of silence, and he felt something connect hard with his arm, then again and again, and he looked to see Freddie trying to beat him to death with his half empty water bottle.

“You stupid fucking  _ arsehole! _ He  _ told _ you he felt sick!” Freddie scolded, water bottle coming down hard on his shoulders.

“I didn’t think-”   


“No! You didn’t think, did you!?” he yelled, giving up on beating him and settling for throwing the bottle hard right at the back of his head. He flinched a bit, but didn’t complain. He deserved that. John was apparently the only one with a brain left in his head, reaching out to unlock the door. As soon as Roger heard the lock click, he was standing up, pulling the door open and rushing past them to the bathroom, head down, looking very pale and  _ very _ teary, and Brian felt nothing but guilt tearing at his chest.

Freddie was busy scolding him, and he ignored him in favour of watching as John found a roll of paper towel and a plastic bin, entering the booth and dutifully mopping up the drums without so much as a peep or a look in their direction. Brian almost gagged at the horrible smell coming from inside the booth, but John seemed fairly unbothered, doing his best to clean up the mess as quickly as he could.

“Deaky, darling you don’t have to do that,” Freddie said quickly, glaring over at Brian.   


“Not our drums. Or our studio. Don’t want to have to pay for cleanup if it stains,” he explained, not looking up.   


“Brian should have to do it!” Freddie said quickly. John didn’t say anything, methodically continuing his cleanup job in silence, only pausing to shake his head every so often. Freddie smacked Brian over the back of the head. He didn’t even flinch.   


“Look what you’ve done!” he scolded. Brian sank into his chair a bit, not entirely sure what to do, almost overcome with guilt.   


“We need to find Rog,” he said finally. Freddie rolled his eyes.   


“Of course we do. Come on,” he tutted, realising that scolding Brian would do nothing except cause him to fold in on himself and nosedive into a spiral of guilt and shame and depression and he couldn’t be bothered with that. He grabbed his arm, dragging him out of his chair and shaking him out of his thoughts, practically pushing him into the bathroom. They could hear Roger crying before they could see him, and Brian cautiously pushed open the door to the only stall in there, feeling like his heart cracked in two when he saw him.

The blond was curled up over the toilet, he’d been sick again, and looked like he might be ready for round three, shivering miserably and sobbing into the bowl.   


“Rog, oh god I’m sorry,” Brian sighed, stepping into the small cubicle, just managing to get the door shut behind them for a bit of privacy.   


“You bloody should be!” Roger choked out, and they heard Freddie snickering outside. Brian crouched beside him, resting a hand on his back, doing his best to soothe him. Thankfully, Roger didn’t shove him off, only having the energy to dry heave over the bowl, only a little bile coming up this time.   


“God, I’m so sorry,” Brian breathed, rubbing his hand up and down Roger’s back, wincing when he felt him heave again, holding him steady.

He looked up at Brian, looking a right mess. His hair was mussed, and he’d managed to get quite a bit of sick in it. His blue eyes were bright and wet, tears running trails down his flushed cheeks. The rest of his face was quite pale, and his normally soft lips were cracked and dry, and he’d somehow managed to split his bottom lip open right in the middle, leaking a small trail of blood down his chin.   


“Here,” Brian said softly, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and handing it to him. He blew his nose and wiped his mouth, wincing when he brushed over his lip, looking at the tissue and whining when he saw it smeared with blood, turning it to show Brian. He managed a sympathetic smile, nodding.   


“Mm, you’ve hurt your lip,” he confirmed, holding his wrist and moving his hand over the toilet so he could drop the tissue in.

“Hurt everything,” he croaked, sitting back and wrapping his arms around his stomach.   


“I know. I know, I’m really sorry love,” Brian sighed, gently unsticking his fringe from his sweaty forehead and wincing, feeling him burning with fever. He should have known, and even if he hadn’t have known, he should have at least checked. One second to feel his forehead and they could have avoided everything. But of course he hadn’t, because he was too stupid and arrogant to  _ ever _ be wrong, of course.

He sat with him for a minute, grabbing another handful of toilet paper and trying to get as much of the vomit out of his hair as he could. He didn’t know what he was going to do about his clothes. They were positively soaked through with vomit, and he was shivering. He couldn’t just leave him like that.

“You poor thing,” he sighed, stroking his hair, “we need to get you out of those clothes.”

“I’ve got nothing to change into,” he mumbled. Brian nodded, sighing.

“Give him yours!” Freddie called from outside the door, sounding frustrated with the pace at which their making up was plodding along. He considered it for a moment. He probably deserved to have to ride home naked, honestly, and he really didn’t want Roger walking around in the freezing night air soaked through, especially if he was unwell. He shrugged off his blazer, peeling Roger’s sticky, wet shirt off and helping him on with the blazer, buttoning it like a shirt, unable to help the smile that formed when he saw how big it was on him.

“What about my trousers?” Roger asked quietly, looking down at his soaked lap.   


“Off with them,” he sighed, “Freddie can you get my coat please?”

“Of course darling,” Freddie called back, and he heard hurried footsteps toward to door, and then footsteps back inside and his coat being thrown over the door, along with a plastic bag, which he was grateful for. He stood Roger up, helping him with his trousers and wrapped the long coat around him, thankful for his height as it fell around his knees, buttoning it down and bundling his dirty clothes into the bag.   


“Warm enough?” Brian asked softly. Roger nodded miserably, looking completely exhausted, leaning heavily against Brian’s chest.   


“Come on. We should get you home,” he hushed. Roger stayed still, feet planted firmly in place, reaching up to sling his arms around Brian’s neck.   


“Really?” Brian sighed. Roger nodded against his chest, and Brian groaned as he bent down, looping his arms under his thighs and heaving him up onto his hip. Roger nuzzled his face into his neck, and Brian nudged the stall door open, struggling a little bit with the small, but heavy man latched onto his side. Freddie let out a little noise when he saw the pair, clutching his hands to his chest.

“Oh, how sweet,” he sighed, unable to rid the sappy grin from his face.   


“Get our stuff would you?” Brian grunted, slowly making his way out to the van. He managed to get the keys out of Roger’s pocket with a bit of shuffling, getting him settled in the back seat, rounding the van to slide into the driver’s seat.   


“Noooo,” Roger whined, staring at him, sounding positively miserable.   


“What?” Brian turned to look at him, sighing when he saw that he was giving him. He couldn’t resist those eyes. He patted the spot behind him on the back seat, before reaching over and grabbing Brian’s shirt, trying to pull him into the back seat.   


“Fine- Rog! Hang on I’m coming!” Brian climbed over the front seat, sliding into the back in a mess of tangled limbs, landing across the seat with a thud. Roger smiled, satisfied, relaxing more when he saw Freddie and Deaky crossing the car park, heavy fog swirling under the streetlamps as the nighttime chill set in.

Roger settled against Brian, cuddling into his chest, thankfully not shivering nearly as much as he had been before.

“I really am sorry Rog, I didn’t know you felt so ill,” Brian said sheepishly, wrapping his arms around him, rubbing his back gently as Freddie and John got into the van, John thankfully not complaining about driving.

“It’s alright,” Roger sighed, practically squirming into his lap as they started the short drive back to their flat. His head lolled to the side before he repositioned himself, drawing his knees up and turning his face into Brian’s chest.

Brian stroked his hair, hoping he wouldn’t fall asleep on the short drive so that he wouldn’t jostle him awake on the walk inside. Roger snaked his arms around his waist, relying entirely on Brian to hold him up so he didn’t slide off the seat. He mumbled into his chest, something unintelligible and muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

“What was that?” Brian asked, two fingers under his chin to hold his head up so that he could hear him. Roger looked up, eyes twinkling in the darkness, a cheeky grin forming on his face as he reached up to slap a hand against his chest.

“I said,” Roger grinned, showing his teeth, before lowering his head back onto his chest, getting comfortable again.   


“I told you so.”

**Author's Note:**

> i need to be writing for my other series im sorry i love sick rog and these two idiots uhhh  
> smell ya later  
> love u <3


End file.
